


Allegiance

by thedevilchicken



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renly meets the Knight of Flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal in the 2011 Small Fandom Fest, 25 May 2011.
> 
> Forgetting that Loras was fostered at Storm's End and squired for Renly (since we don't see this in the show!), this is a sort of reimagining of how Renly and Loras met (and their relationship came to be).

The height of the summer in Highgarden seemed very much like perfection, or at least it did to Renly. The land about the castle blossomed brightly in all directions, one huge spread of lush green grass scattered with all the colours that he'd ever seen and quite a few he hadn't, rich as the gems on his green velvet doublet. The sun shone even through the rain and that was beautiful too, the clear blue of the sky fractured by rainbow upon rainbow just like light through the crystals of the Great Sept of Baelor, back in King's Landing where his brother was king. 

Robert was king throughout the Seven Kingdoms, of course. Robert, ever the warrior, had taken the realm once the Mad King was slain, but when Renly stepped into the great hall of Highgarden where Mace Tyrell sat, in his great chair upon the dais surrounded by such gleaming yellow gold, it was hard to see too much of Baratheon in the lands of House Tyrell. 

He'd seen much of the lands his brother ruled. Robert may have raised him to Lord of Storm's End but aside from being a constant and amusing irritation to their brother Stannis, the seat of Renly's lordship meant surprisingly little to him. After the siege had been broken by the eternally self-righteous Warden of the North, Storm's End had been left a pale and crumbling shadow of its former glory; Renly had ordered its repair and taken to horseback, made a short tour of his brother's newly acquired kingdom while the masons shored the walls. That kingdom had proved to be a great deal vaster than anticipated, however, and after the first two months of saddle sores and nights in rough tents pitched by the Kingsroad, he'd headed toward King's Landing with a vow that should ever travel be required of him in the future, he'd do so very much in style. 

Years after Robert came to power, years of those tedious meetings with Lord Arryn and the Small Council, and Renly had been dispatched to treat with House Tyrell. He'd met their lord before, of course; after the multiple pleasures of warring, whoring, wenching and wine, there was nothing Robert had loved as well as a tourney and more than once the great lords of Westeros had been called together to the capital to partake of that love. Their champions came with them, floods of armoured men and squires that crowded the banks of the Blackwater with their mounts and tents and pavilions; with the promise of fame, glory and riches for the victors, few of the greatest knights of the realm had failed to participate. 

Renly had rarely ridden, preferring the part of spectator, placing bets with Littlefinger and the Imp up safe in the galleries as the great competition unfurled below. Renly was far from craven. He just knew where his skills happened to lie. 

Mace Tyrell had attended, and Renly had made his acquaintance early on. In his brother's absence, likely due to an overindulgence of some kind though Renly had by then long ceased to verify cause, he had welcomed the Lord of Highgarden to King's Landing. With him had been the lord's children: Ser Willas the eldest, Ser Garlan the Gallant, the young daughter Margaery who'd paid every lady's courtesy due him. And striding into the room quite late, all smiles and shining locks tousled from the ride, was the youngest son. Renly had always smiled easily, a stark contrast to his stern brother Stannis, but never more so than in that moment when he made the acquaintance of Ser Loras Tyrell. 

Loras hadn't won that year. He'd been too young, lacked a little in experience though he lacked nothing in style, and Beric Dondarrion took him in the semi-final. He'd pulled himself to his feet and bowed to King Robert as he bled from beneath one rondel. Renly called on him in his pavilion after the melee, wished him well as a maester tended his wound. Loras smiled. He was so young; the wound barely seemed to bother him, even as they drank together that evening, after Robert was done with feasting his lords. Renly knew there was no coin in the coffers for all the fine meats and fine wines that filled their lordly bellies, but Robert would never have it any other way. 

Neither had Loras won the year after that. The crowds loved him in the lists, of course; he gave a rose to a different maiden with each match, a rose and a smile and he won their hearts. They called him the Knight of Flowers and he dressed for it well, the roses on his armour gleaming in the summer sun as he laughed and donned his helm. He was made for the tourney, for the lists and games of war, though the Kingslayer had unseated him in the last. It had barely seemed to dampen his spirits at all. 

Renly had never had much in the way of affection for Ser Jaime, due perhaps in part to his particular brand of ego that jangled so terribly with Renly's own. The Lannister heir swaggered his way through life, charmed and beautiful, the white cloak of the Kingsguard at his shoulders and the gold of the Lion of Lannister at his breast. Renly may not have played the games of trust and honour that so many of the courtly knights engaged in, but even he could see that Jaime was swift bloody treason just waiting to happen. After all, it had happened before. Aerys Targaryen could attest to that. 

Loras, however, was an entirely different entity. Gallant and brave, the smallfolk's hero and the court's rising star, Renly could scarce move for talk of him. Had he seen how Lord Tyrell's youngest had unseated Barristan the Bold? Had not the Knight of Flowers acquitted himself well against the Kingslayer, and him so young, barely a man grown! Renly blithely agreed as he sipped his wine. There was a crowd surrounding the young knight that barely ever seemed to thin and Renly was never one to vie for a man's attention; he settled the day's accounts with Littlefinger and the Imp, shared a cautious glass with Lord Varys and narrowly avoided conversing with Lady Arryn of the Vale before he took his seat at the table. But occupation was far from meaning Loras Tyrell was far from his thoughts. 

"Lord Renly." 

He knew the voice. A man's voice in spite of his age, liquid honey to match the honey-brown waves of his hair. 

"Ser Loras." Renly smiled a genial smile and raised his glass. "No one here can talk of anything but the Knight of Flowers. My congratulations."

Loras chuckled. "I could hardly call this a victory, my lord," he conceded, though he did raise his glass and drink. The sharp-sweet Arbor red lingered at his lips, and Renly shook his head with a smile. There was temptation and there was temptation, idle thoughts to while away the hours of his small council ennui and desire that curled hot and dark in the pit of his stomach, and this was the latter. How such a pretty creature could inspire such notions as flitted through his head in that moment was – if not a mystery – quite a thing of wonder. 

"They all care more for you than Jaime Lannister, at least," Renly told him, a slight shrug of his shoulders accompanying the thought. "Though I suppose you could hardly call that a victory either."

The smile still played at Loras's wine-stained lips as he inclined his head in agreement. "And you, my lord?" he said, as he leaned a little closer. His hand rested at the back of Renly's chair, his long hair brushing the velvet of Renly's doublet. The bastard smelled of roses and blood and wine, and Renly breathed deep, the smell seeming almost as intoxicating as the wine just then. "Do you care more for me?"

Renly laughed, but his blush gave him away. He could tell by the look in Loras's eyes, by the tone of his voice as he told him the hour that they'd meet. Renly didn't agree because he didn't have to. Loras already knew that he'd come. 

It was past midnight when the revelry came to its lingering end. Robert was drunk and loud as ever, Queen Cersei's face the very picture of indifference as she sat beside him. Renly knew better than to believe her looks, however, and was unsurprised by the moments of disgust he glimpsed as Robert's hands wandered over the serving girls' curves, his raucous laughter drawing his lords' eyes to the queen's disgrace. She left before he did, the Kingslayer's arm ready as ever for her escort; the two of them were so alike that Renly had to wonder if the gods hadn't missed a trick in birthing Cersei female. Perhaps then she would have been easier to control. 

The lesser lords began to leave soon after, and after some initial complaint the king followed his wife. The others drank a while longer but Renly saw Loras and his brothers leave the hall; he himself escorted Lord Arryn back to the Tower of the Hand and then made his way home. Two of his best men had accompanied him, but twenty minutes later he slipped them on his way back out into the city. He pulled a simple roughspun cloak over the velvet of his clothes, masking the gold stag of Baratheon there proud on his doublet and the sword at his belt; he slipped through the streets unnoticed in the dark, passing the dank taverns and brothels of Flea Bottom on his way out to the Mud Gate. The men let him leave; there was no reason for the gates to be closed with all the comings and goings from the tourney site by the river. 

He crossed the field. Men gathered around campfires, singing, telling tales, drinking by the firelight. He swept by them, between the small tents and the grand pavilions, looking for the gold rose of House Tyrell on its bright field of green. The first was for Garlan the Gallant, the next few flying on banners above the lesser sigils of their lords bannermen. He smiled in the dark as he found the place at last, where Loras Tyrell's last broken shield sat outside as signpost for Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. He drew a breath and stepped inside. 

The pavilion was dark within but for the brazier burning at its centre; Renly drew down his hood and cast his gaze over the rather sparse décor; Loras and his brothers had evidently opted to bring more in the way of armour and weaponry than in creature comforts for their tents, though what he saw was fine enough. Camp seats sat around a low table by the brazier, the carving at their edges all the ornate flowers that Loras and his house all seemed to favour. The trunks of his clothing were similarly carved, the garments spilling from them just as fine as a king's, velvet and butter-soft leather and cloth-of-gold all side by side. And when he cast his gaze beyond the brazier there was Loras himself, reclining on a bed of furs. Renly chuckled. The low light of the brazier cast dancing shadows over Loras's form. By the glow of the fire he was even more beautiful than before. 

"I started to wonder if you were ever going to come," he said. 

Renly tutted loudly as he took a few steps closer, pulling off his gloves and tossing them aside, onto the table by the fire. 

"No, you didn't."

Loras smiled. "No, I don't suppose I did."

Renly dropped his cloak where he stood and unbuckled the sword from his waist, holding it in his hands for a moment. Loras's own sat across the room with his armour, the enamelled, gilded silver gleaming there in the tent's low light. He moved over to it, set down his sword and gave Loras the briefest of glances as he ran his bare fingertips over the smooth metal of the plate. It was exquisite work, the best that money could buy, and Loras's father had arguably just as much of that as the Lannisters. 

"I'd make you a gift of it, but I doubt it would fit."

Renly gave a soft huff of amusement, turning to face him. 

"We are not so very different in size, ser."

Loras rose. He was wearing leather trousers and a flowing white shirt, barefoot as he crossed the many rugs and rushes that covered the grass. His hair was caught up and tied at the nape of his neck, the low red-gold light from the brazier catching at the angles of his face as he moved. He knew that Renly wanted him just as surely as the girls at the tourney had. It seemed Renly was in no fit state to deny it. 

"But the crowned stag suits you better, my lord."

The corners of Loras's mouth twitched up into the barest hint of a smile; his fingers drifted to the hem of his shirt and pulled up slowly, revealing the milk-white skin beneath, inch by inch. The hollows and angles of Loras's lithe frame were picked out in that red-gold light, shadows flitting over his skin making him all flame and darkness. He tossed the shirt aside and stepped closer still. Renly's heartbeat quickened. 

He lifted his hands, touched Loras's pale skin and felt the warmth of him beneath his fingers. He was bruised, he saw, scattered with reds and purples from the tourney, marks where Renly impulsively pressed his lips. Loras gasped and Renly drew back, but from the look in Loras's eyes, from the expression on his face, it wasn't pain that had him gasping. Renly chuckled and pressed his mouth to a deep purple bruise that stretched over his sharp collarbone. Loras's fingers pushed through Renly's hair, caught at his doublet and pulled him in close. Renly felt giddy, wanted to laugh, to drag Loras down to the furs of his bed and explore every inch of that pale, bruised skin. He'd barely thought it possible, but Loras wanted Renly just as much as Renly wanted him. 

Their lips met after a long, long moment, Loras's strong arms around his waist as Renly's palms cupped Loras's beautiful face. In that moment, Renly Baratheon was as lost in love as he had ever been. 

Eight months later, Renly rode into Highgarden under the crowned stag banner of House Baratheon. A hundred men rode with him, from court at King's Landing, and Mace Tyrell greeted them as friends. Renly was shown to a tower suite with views out over the Mander as it wound its way through the greens of the Reach; he washed the dust of travel from his hair and his skin in a gilded bowl embossed with the Tyrell sigil, bit into an apple that seemed full of all the sweetness of summer and took a swallow of sharp apple cider that brought a smile to his lips. Highgarden was just as beautiful as he'd always heard, as Maester Cressen had taught him and his brothers as they grew. He envied the Tyrells, for that at least. 

He remembered that night on the field by the Blackwater as he stood there at the window, looking out over the lands of House Tyrell. They stretched out as far as the eye could see, sweet lands under a blue sky now fading the purple of dusk, the breeze scented like the very finest perfume. Storm's End was so austere, out there on Shipbreaker Bay; Robert ought to have given the rule of it to their other brother, he sometimes thought, though the Stormlands were so much richer than Stannis's. His elder brother still scowled whenever anyone named him Lord of Dragonstone, however, and that was usually enough to raise Renly's mood. 

The Mander there flowed slower than the Blackwater Rush; Renly remembered the sound of the river always there behind the hoots and shouts of the tourney, behind the campfire songs of the squires and men-at-arms as he first kissed Loras Tyrell. He loosed Loras's long hair, let it fall around his shoulders and Loras took his hand, sure as he'd known a man to be as he led him to the furs of his bed. They'd lain tangled together, entwined and breathless as long into morning as they'd dared. There was so much that Renly had wanted, so much Loras had spoken in that honey-sweet tone that made the filthiest notion seem pure, and so much for which they'd just lacked the time. He'd left for the city before dawn; one last stolen kiss was all they'd shared before Loras had returned to his home in Highgarden. 

Eight months passed. Renly never wanted for lovers but one name seemed to haunt him beyond the reach of all the others. He'd tried so hard not to betray his secret when Jon Arryn thought to send him as envoy from the council of the king to speak with Lord Tyrell at his home; the anticipation had almost broken him, and now there he was at last. 

Lord Tyrell was gracious, invited Renly and his men to his hall to feast, granted the wishes of the council and made the journey south seem little more than a tedious political affair, a mummer's farce of bowing before the Tyrell fortune, which of course it had always been. They dined well, drank well, and Renly was sure that the men of his escort enjoyed the finer hospitality of the women of the south that night. That had never been for Renly himself, though he supposed that one day he'd take a wife for the mistress of Storm's End, he'd father children and further the family line as Robert and Stannis had both done before him. The idea didn't give him pleasure, but he knew his duty.

"They said you were coming."

Renly hadn't heard the door open; he wasn't surprised to find Loras standing there when he turned, leaning in the mouth of an open passageway there through the stone wall of the chamber. It was just like Loras to know all the tricks. 

"You knew I would, in the end."

There amidst Highgarden's beauty, they'd make Renly's visit last; it would be enough or something like it until the next of Robert's tourneys, the heat of the fire and the furs of a Tyrell pavilion or Renly's chambers up high in the towers of the king's Red Keep. Loras moved, pressed him to the wall with the length of his long, lithe frame, pressed his mouth to his and Renly pulled him closer still. Loras would stay for the night, he thought, and they'd do all the things that he'd dreamt they would. He'd feel the quickening of Loras's pulse beneath his fingers, taste the salt of his skin, he'd strip him bare and make him breathless with desire the way the thought of this night had made him for those eight long months. His own hands had never held the same thrill for him as the touch of Loras Tyrell's. He was going to feel that now. He'd pray to the old gods and new alike that it would never stop. 

"Close the door and come to bed," Renly told him. Loras smiled and did just that, as Renly knew he always would. They'd call it allegiance, a knight to his liege lord; Renly would give it another name, and Loras too. Loras may kneel, but it would hardly be for the banner. 

Loras kissed him as they fumbled with each other's clothing. They'd both known that first kiss would be far from the last, somehow; from the moment that Renly had glimpsed the Knight of Flowers, he'd known this would be the great love of his lifetime. All that remained now was the living of it.


End file.
